Your Heart Will Hold
by sincerelysadako
Summary: Things have changed a lot while Steve was frozen in ice. It's almost too much for the Captain to handle. Almost. He can make it through though, right? He always has a way of holding on... even if he ends up needing a little help. (Rating may eventually change.)


**A/N: Originally written as a songfic for the song "Details in the Fabric" by Jason Mraz, I had to remove the lyrics for obvious reasons. Every horizontal line is a space where a portion of the lyrics was supposed to be. This is also my first songfic and meant to be the first chapter of what I hope to eventually make into a much larger, slightly AU story. I would also like to not that this story was started before Winter Soldier came out. That's part of the reason certain details are the way they are.**

 **If you do read this, thank you so much for your time.  
**

* * *

I wake with a start from another nightmare... Looks like another sleepless night punching a sack in the gym. My name is Steve Rogers, 'Captain' Steve Rogers. Yes, that 'Captain Steve Rogers'. As I roll over a groan escapes me unwillingly and I pull myself out of bed. Will these nightmares ever end? With a sigh I pull on a pair of tan pants, then a white undershirt. Things have changed so much. When I first woke up they told me... S.H.I.E.L.D. told me... They said so many things had changed. The year is 2011. I knew people who didn't even think the world would survive until the year 2000... I've been believed to be lost at sea, confirmed buried in ice, unconscious before and after being thawed out... They said that we won the war... then more wars followed, and we won them too. Howard is dead, but he had a son, Tony... Made a fancy mechanical suit... Calls himself 'Iron Man'... I've only ever seen him, never met him. Peggy, Peggy is... Peggy...

* * *

The flashbacks are starting again: Brooklyn, my Brooklyn, the Doc, Germany, Italy, the war, Bucky, crashing the HYDRA plane into the ice, 'Red Skull', a glowing blue cube, Peggy... Peggy's gone too. As I pick myself up off of the ground I shrug off the tiny amount of pain I feel from slamming into the floor and let out another sigh, slide my arms into the sleeves of a slightly over-sized plaid over shirt, button it up, sit and put on my shoes. I breathe in deep and another sigh escapes. Why does it feel so hard to breathe when I'm not doing anything else but thinking?

* * *

Struggling just to breathe normally I force myself to stand. I have to. I can't give up; it's not in my nature. I push myself to finish getting ready, put on my brown leather coat, grab my bag with all my stuff in it; sweatpants, an extra shirt or two, wrap for my hands, basic medical supplies just in case. I guess I learned a long time ago the only person you can really _always_ count on is yourself... As I walk out the door to my apartment I struggle to breathe deeply again and another sigh fights its way out, slowly this time, catching in my lungs and making a strange noise at it hits the cool night air. I'm not sure I'll ever get used to the new New York...

* * *

Walking to the gym is always a small piece of hell for me... All I have is my thoughts and the background noise of the city swirling around me. I think about the places I used to know and go to; so many of them are gone now, or bigger. Nothing feels the same, even if it is. I feel lost, out of time, alone in a crowd of millions.

* * *

I'm beginning to make a habit of this... I might as well just not sleep. Every night it's the same thing... nightmares, flashbacks, pick myself up, dust myself off, walk to the gym... It's the only place in this city that feels close to the past. Sometimes I just want to scream, lose my grip for a minute because of everything that's happened, but I can't. I just come here and punch things... I guess that's not much better...

* * *

Maybe it is better this way... I could be dangerous if I lost it... and I wouldn't be me anymore. I made a promise once, to always be me. I don't break promises... that's not in my nature either... I walk into the gym and set up the punching bag then get ready, almost as slowly as I got ready to come here.

* * *

The more I hit the bag the more I think about other things, better things, and the better I feel. Things will get better, they have to. Something will make everything look up, even if it has to be something strange for me, I'll adjust eventually. I've still got a lot of life to look forward to... I can do this. I have to. I need to keep fighting, it's what I do. I don't know _how_ to run away, if I did I'd still be running now and I'd never stop. Running's just not in my nature...


End file.
